Home again
by needyshadow
Summary: So, this is a short one-shot, and it takes place 3 years after Sherlock's "death". Basically, John is devastated and lost. And really, really desperate.


The door slammed behind John as he entered the apartment. He took off his coat and absentmindedly threw it towards the hanger, but it landed on the floor a few feet away. John didn't care. He continued towards the kitchen, walking like he was on autopilot, eyes even emptier than usual. He tried to make himself a cup of coffee, but his hands were too shaky. He dropped the spoon on the floor and entered the living room. He looked at the armchair. The one he found Sherlock sitting in so many times after returning from the grocery store. Sherlock would always greet him with one of his witty comments or strange requests.

John visited the graveyard today. It was exactly 3 years ago, when John helped Sherlock chase Moriarty. When he told Sherlock that friends protect people. It was 3 years ago, that John answered Sherlock's call and as always did exactly what he was told to, because he could never say no to Sherlock. 3 years ago, John watched Sherlock jump to his death. He could still see it so clearly, even with his eyes closed. He could see it all the time – Sherlock standing on the roof, looking at him. And then jumping. Sacrificing. For him, the pathetic war invalid. A damaged goods. He could see Sherlock's face on that sidewalk, his grey eyes usually filled with life now staring in an empty space, in something that John cannot see. His black curls covered in blood, his coat ripped. Tears started rolling down John's cheeks. At the graveyard, he whispered his name. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. He touched the cold stone, followed the curve of the letters with his finger, trying to create the illusion, just for a few moments, that Sherlock is there with him. John threw himself in the armchair and grabbed Sherlock's scarf, burying his face in it and taking a deep breath. He always loved Sherlock's smell. But no matter how hard he tried, or what he did, nothing could bring Sherlock back. Not his prayers, not his screams... John sobbed and dropped to the floor, still clutching the scarf.

–Why!? WHY!?- John yelled, but no one could hear him. Mrs Hudson was having lunch with Lestrade. They became close over the past three years and that became their ritual. They were probiably talking about him right now. John heard them several times, whispering in the hallway. They were saying that he ate almost nothing, that he talked to no one, that they were worried about him. But John just couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted them to leave. All of them. To leave him alone to cry. No one really understood. Hell, he didn't unerstand it all, then how would anyone else? In his anger, John grabbed a cup from the table and threw it at the wall, sending it to pieces. –LEAVE ME ALONE!- More tears came rushing down. John hugged his knees and his head fell down on his chest. –I want to die.- He whispered it to himself, and it was the truth. And hey, that was only logical, right? He couldn't bring Sherlock back, so maybe he could go to Sherlock. He obviously wasn't able to live properly without him. He tilted his head to the side, thinking about that for a moment before making a decision. He slowly crawled towards the cabinet. He stood up, wrapping the scarf around his neck. After taking a deep breath, he opened the drawer and pulled out a gun. His hand stopped shaking. Weird. His hand was always so steady when handling a weapon. John looked at the gun in his hand. He could almost hear Sherlock's voice. He heard it most of the time, it was constantly in his head. Now, it was saying: _Don't do it, John. Don't do it. I thought you're not a coward._

–I'm not a coward. I'm not. I'm doing this because... Because I can't go on like this anymore. I... I need you, Sherlock.- John wanted to smack himself in the head. Why was he even talking back? This was just his imagination. There was no point in talking back, because Sherlock was dead. John slowly raised his hand and pressed the gun to his head. This was it. He's going to do it.

_Don't do it, John._

-Why not? Why the hell not!?- John started yelling. –It's not like anybody would care! I have no one. _No one._ Not anymore.

_John, don't do it. Don't pull the trigger._

–Why are you telling me this!?

_Because friends protect people._

John could clearly hear Sherlock's voice in his head, telling him his own words. John closed his eyes. He could almost feel long fingers over his own hand holding the gun.

-Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll see you soon. I... I love you.

-I love you too.

Those four words were spoken directly into John's left ear, warm breath tingling his skin. John kept his eyes closed, but didn't pull the trigger. It was probiably just one of his visions. He had them from time to time. If he just stands still, it should go away in a few moments. Except it didn't. John felt the long fingers still gently holding his right hand, slowly lowering it. He could feel an arm holding him around the waist from behind, pressing the two bodies together. The warm breath now moved to the right side of his face. John's head automatically turned slightly to the right. Another whisper. –Open your eyes, John.- And John did just that. Because he could never say no to that voice. His eyes met the blue-green ones, only a few inches away. The golden light was dancing inside them.

–I'm here, John.- Sherlock whispered once again. John looked like a corpse that was brought back to life. His eyes weren't dead and empty anymore. Some color returned to his cheeks, and his face had an expression. It wasn't really a smile, it was more a complete disbelief. But that was a start, too. John hesitantly raised his left hand and experimentally touched Sherlock's cheek. He didn't dissappear, he was still standing there. He moved it to his neck, then to his hair. He tangled his fingers in that silky black curls and pulled Sherlock into a bone-crushing hug, sobbing on his shoulder. He held him like his life depended on it. Because really, it did. John burried his head in Sherlock's neck and took a deep breath, trying to convince himself this wasn't a dream. When he felt Sherlock's arms hugging tightly around his waist, the feeling of safeness and peace filled him for the first time in the past 3 years. John let out a shaky breath and collapsed in the teary Sherlock's safe arms, one last thought on both of their minds.

_I'm home again_.


End file.
